


Axis

by Hikou



Series: Spiral [9]
Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:26:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikou/pseuds/Hikou
Summary: It's a natural turn, a relative spin, and slowly I've twirled full circle on this axis of Shinra and soldiers, boys and guns. I am the sinner wearing the savior's mask, the wolf in the sheepskin.And this war belongs to me.[Sequel to Rotary, Final story of the Death Cycle Set.]





	1. Self-Reflection

It feels awkward because it is.

I am not used to being primped and prepped, pushed and prodded, molded into something resembling a woman.

Because it feels like it has been so long since I've been one.

I've never noticed all the scars, until they try to sweep them away with skin-colored dust. I've never noticed the grimace my mouth is stuck in, until they outline it in sharp red. I am not aware I have claws, until they've painted them to be shining and sharp. When they finally crowd away, all these obligatory masters in the art of disguise, I am startled by the woman sitting before me.

It is not that she seems striking in a sense I cannot identify, not beauty but contrast, there is an ingrained severity to her expression, emphasizing her gentle features. It is not that in a terrifying way I find her pretty, though I can see the bright red warning signs they've painted, the unnatural flash of a rattle manifested on my blood-red lips. It is not because she does not look real--eyes glaringly bright, supercharged just underneath the sloshing shade of green contained in marbles with which I do not know how to play, skin pale, fortified porcelain, demeanor so needlessly angry.

But because I cannot remember being this old.

Becoming this old.

Her mask of silk-wrapped steel cracks, bloodied lips downturning into a soft frown, as a shaky set of oddly tiny, delicate fingers reach up to brush this illusion, be sure it is real.

Surely it has not been this long...

One of these pretty little artists has lingered behind too long, observed this display of confusion well enough to misinterpret it. "We work miracles, huh?" She is too proud.

I have nothing to say to her when I look up, but I can see my reflection in the mirror out of the corner of my eye. The silk ties pull tight against the back of my skull and I can feel the steel faceplate of unsparing vehemence pull tight across my cheekbones.

She scurries away without another word.

The woman in the mirror stands, and fingers that have lost their shake and shiver smooth down the impractical dresscode they've become a part of. It does not look like a uniform, but it does.

I am decorated in every medal the Shinra archive can dig up and reissue me, pinned across double breasted black collars, offsetting terribly new, impossibly flashy brass buttons. My arms are striped in as many honors as Rufus Shinra can dream up. Underneath this certificate of authenticity they've wrapped me in, I straighten the only semblance of identity they've left me, the only undecorated inch, a familiar black tie.

Perhaps I can deal with being blanketed in false praises, but I look like a doll, unmeant for application in the skirt and the shoes. They have bound my legs together in womanhood so that I cannot kick back and I have lost the ability to flee.

It looks like a costume.

Because it is, I realize.

"Ms. Shinohara," a man beckons me, head taped shut with a wired microphone, ears closed in cuffed prisons of sound. He's holding a clipboard and waving. "The reporters are ready for the statement, the President is waiting."

But I cannot connect to the speed of his anxiety. I am stuck in slow motion. My lips are weighed down too heavy with paint to speak quickly, every word is slow and deliberate, tipped in venom, candy coated with a false smile.

Shinra is waiting just outside the curtain, powdered though he has no scars to hide, unpainted though he has so much more to warn for. He is staring at the podium of microphones, the flash of cameras between the hanging red curtains. I have no idea what he is thinking.

I have no desire to.

He turns to me with that display of teeth, more predatory sneer than smile, and I am left struggling to imitate it, perfect it, warp it into the natural demeanor of poison I should be renowned for.

Somewhere in between his hand finds my back, and ever so slightly he pushes the gateway to hell open, urges me to peek inside at all the unwitting faces. I am unaware of how or when he's slithered in so close, but I am impressed.

I must learn this trick.

I must learn to use this political artillery Rufus Shinra creates with a flip of his wrist.

He sweeps his arm at these eager men and women, standing on toes, shoving shoulder to shoulder to get a glimpse, have a chance to shout their question, express their demands, shout questions at the faces of bodyguards on the stage, expressionless inside of navy blue suits.

I cannot help but see their eyes on us as well, probably the only ones able to see through our tear of space behind this side-curtain, this trap-door, probably the only ones able to tear through my mind, if they can recognize me behind this perfectly marketed costume, the disguise Shinra has orchestrated on my behalf.

I can feel the words when he breathes them, simple and smooth, paralyzing in their vivacity--the concise wording of _look what I have done, see what I can do_. I wonder if he's thought of them especially in advance, or if this is simply the eloquent sort of power that slips out of Rufus Shinra's mind all of the time.

"Director, the world is waiting for you with baited breath."

I only know that they ought to be.


	2. Ave Maria

They are beautiful behind glass, and my heart bursts at the mere sight of them. Though of grief or joy, I cannot discern. 

Perhaps it bursts of shame. 

Because I know they will look equally as beautiful in death, these young boys with so many reasons and excuses, hopes and dreams. They are small and insignificant, no more than poker chips on the table, but in this instant they take my breath away with their striking humanity and their dissolving shades of will. 

I want the illusion to shatter when the door opens--they are so young I must be disinterested, unimpressed with their conversation--but they do not hear my entrance and their awkward middle-bound voices wash over me in varying degrees of playfulness and nervousness. I cannot even find it within me to send a disapproving glance on roaming eyes. 

It's all so nostalgic. It all reeks of the dead. 

I cannot help but wonder, as I take my place at center ring to this circus, if perhaps this is the reason children are such a necessity, if this is not just a clever scheme to relive a youth impossible to reclaim. 

I have not intended to wait, but I've been standing here so long that the chatter has died away into whispers and heartbeats. It is a foreign feeling, to be so intimidated at their number. I imagine I probably looked taller on the television, more imposing than I do now. For a brief moment I regret casting aside the costume Rufus Shinra has assigned me, the one of war medals and false femininity, but it will not take long for these boys to understand the emptiness of these comforts. 

I have no reason to lie to them.

I feel like the paint has stuck, though I've long since wiped it away, my lips are heavy and they move too slow. By time I've opened them, I cannot close them again. " _I am Director Shinohara,_ " I say, and it sounds so over-acted, "and for the next four weeks you're _mine._ "

Their faces are blurring behind blue suits, and my heart stops beating in my chest when I hear it because secretly, I am waiting for it.

It's not particularly well thought out, or witty in the least, but it's the kind of pig-like dribble I expect to be dropping out of David's mouth.   
"Oh. _Baby._ "

The severity of my shock at the physical manifestation of this nightmarish day dream is my only small blessing, mouth pulled tight, eyes widened at the incredulity of the universe, though this boy might think the incredulity of his action. I have set to investigate, my strides are quick and purposeful, and he's not hard to pinpoint.

Because that look on his face is so sickeningly familiar, even if the face itself is not. 

Really, he doesn't look all that much like David, though he does a good impression, eyebrows quirked and mouth pulled flat into that ridiculous smirk, but his hair is all wrong, and so are the eyes. 

He doesn't possess David's inherent self-consciousness, or his conniving charm. He's too young, under-developed, but it's still hard to fight it. 

The uncanny resemblance.

It's been a very long while since I've had a sword of any type strapped to my back, and though choosing the Hardedge was a mystery in and of itself, I still had the common knowledge to use it, and the good grace not to let it rest at waste. 

I've swung so fast, with such ease, I'm not sure he understands anything is wrong until he here's that collective rush of air, the vacuum of all his cohorts gasping in horror, because even though the blade is blunt, swinging it at that velocity, there is still a very real possibility of this child losing his head. 

It stops half an inch short, close enough for me to feel the vibration of his pulse through it. 

Suddenly it is a conducting rod, and we are bound. 

The look on his face could never have a price, and it, too, is familiar in a way I cannot pretend to ignore. 

It spares me a warped sense of confidence, and I speak with a smile. "Currently, the neo-SOLDIER is listed as having one member." 

I like the way my voice echoes. It feels like there's more of me than there really is.

" _One._ " 

But I am afraid they have not grasped my meaning. "This means you initial twenty will be _my_ subordinates. _I_ will hand train you in combat, _I_ will be responsible for any infusions you are to undergo, and any _mishap_ you may cause is reportable only to _me._ " 

They seem sufficiently scared, and I wonder briefly how Kunsel would've handled this in my position. Though, I seriously doubt he'd have received jeers. 

I cannot recall what Zack's hierarchy must've looked like--all freedom speeches and dreams of the future. 

I have no guidance. I have long since learned there is no freedom, and for the moment my dreams rest squarely on the shoulders of twenty young boys, not even old enough to yet be called men. 

Children, at best. 

I wonder if the time will come when I will beckon them into death's waiting arms. I wonder if this is why Lazard would never see us. 

We speak in terms of gambling roulettes and boards of Stratego, but they look a lot less like pawns if you have the misfortune of seeing their bright eyes. 

"The clock is ticking," I say to no one in particular. 

But somehow, I have a feeling my David is listening.


	3. Original Sin

The world hates me. The world loves me.

Iconically, I have ceased being real; I am the idea they worship, the hope on their lips, the breath of their prayers. _Fix us, Director,_ the world cries, _Make us human again. Rebuild our cities, save our children._ They beg of their false idol to bring restoration and peace swiftly, but the only thing I am good for bringing is destruction. 

Nonetheless, I take their offerings, the sons they sacrifice up to my false persona. I take all thirty thousand two hundred and sixty eight of them. 

And this is only the first month.

But the world does not understand that their goddess is only a woman--hardened with age, hollowed in pain--and it is the woman that the world hates. It pinches at her from every corner--from Reeve's furious politics to Reno's resentful eyes. I can hear it in their voices when we gather to council at that cherry wood table. "30,000 is not an army." 

I do not wish to be this goddess, but I have been fashioned as such. My voice is too level at response, too commanding and sharp, outranking through its poisonous softness. "Thirty thousand two hundred and sixty eight," I say.

This man--this faceless, worthless man, with no purpose, no justification, no accomplishment to his very existence, wants to know, " _What?_ " 

King Rufus casts a bored eye upon our debacle. I wonder who this nameless suit is, why his words ought to make any difference when the world is but clay between our fingers. I do not enjoy repeating myself, but it becomes obvious that I must. I speak louder, so as not to repeat the gesture again. "Thirty thousand two hundred and sixty eight." 

He does not understand.

"Are you honestly nit-picking at numbers!" He shouts, words falling as short as the spittle from between his lips. The documents I cannot pretend I have not read, the documents I have written, are tainted in his slime. "Stife is lurking outside like a goddamned wolf! And Tuesti is on the verge of war! We are threatening war! On the world! _And you are bragging about numbers_?" 

I wonder if the Turks can hear him from this far. He seems so very loud in person, my devalued adversary. Though, I doubt very much that they care. It is childish to feel so alienated, but I do not know how else to mistake Reno's stiff lip, Rude's waning presence. 

But for once, I have created this mess, and I must admit, as disheartened as I am, the position has its benefits. 

And they sit beside me in contrasting spectrums of emotion, the buds that will bloom into my two commanding officers. I wonder if this was a poor decision, scaring them with Rufus's court so quickly, but they must learn to cope some time.

With the fighting.

With the screaming.

With the stares.

They have been labeled Shinra monsters the moment they set foot in the room, relics of old to accompany the antique of SOLDIER, the iron goddess who casts war upon the world with a cruel fist. The infusions have altered them in a familiar way, and they contrast as sharply in appearance as they do in nature. 

Yin and Yang, I ought to introduce them as, but their names are Noah Morin and Ethan Davies--a flash of blonde suddenly devoid of color, blue eyes sapped to empty orbs of white, while the other contains too much, dark eyes laden heavy in blackness behind locks sullied into an equal darkness. They respond accordingly, Noah's expression as blank as his sight and Ethan's as dark as his own.

My two strongest cadets, my two sharpest minds. 

Mothers are not meant to choose favorites, but I do. 

It's hard not to. 

I wonder if this is how it is done, how we manufacture children into legends of such caliber their minds cannot contain themselves. 

They are the reason my voice not only has the ability, but the _right_ to be so cutting, my dismissal so simply elegant. My pride is justified in their creation and adoration. "There are thirty thousand two hundred and sixty eight men willing to _die_ so that _you_ won't have to," I tell him. "To trivialize _any_ one of them is a transgression I simply _will not_ sit idly by and watch." 

It is because of them I am vindicated in standing, of vacating myself from this circus none of us has ever really cared for. After all, I must lead by example--and they stand and follow suit quite well. 

It is because of them that the sting in my chest remains contained enough to breathe through when we must pass the patch of navy blue blotted near the door--when Reno glares, when Tseng turns his head, when I see the oddly placed cut on Mikari's brow, the fatigue of Snow's slouch, when I recognize the hopelessness in Elena's eyes, when Rude shoots me that _look_ over the top of his glasses.

The effects of what I have done have been chinking so steadily for the past weeks, the en masse display of its actualization explode in the center of my heart like a well-placed time-bomb.

I want to collapse in the hallway. I can feel the girl inside screaming behind the mask she is painted in. The facade would be cracking, chipping around the edges if not for Noah's concerned gaze, Ethan's gorilla-like berating. I am not sure whether I find it more sick that I gain strength from their belief or the actual act of placing trust so delicately upon my shoulders. 

Still, it feels as though my insides are wrapped around my spine.

Because I am only a woman.

And it is a woman that the world hates.


	4. Chaos Theory

"Are we really so small?" 

It is a simple and childish question, but from behind the glass of the training room, watching boys too young to drink practice losing their lives, it has wrapped itself in something deeper. Cocooned in wise tone of Noah's voice, this spec of nothing spreads its wings into philosophy and fear. 

I ought to tell him so, but it's hard not to believe myself when the word clenches so sternly between my teeth, "No." 

It tastes like a lie, but folklore swims behind it--tales of men with silver hair and quests for Goddesses and immortality, angels and swords, thousand soldier battles. Even my own past reeks of imbalance--the rise of an empire, the start of a war. It would be cruel to tell one so young otherwise, that for an imperfect price even he might move the stars, alone, as something so small as one. 

I lean forward on the rail protecting the one-way glass shell of the contained pandemonium that is training. It is an awkward stance to take, more still in the presence of a subordinate, but it feels oddly comforting. "They say a butterfly can start a tornado halfway around the world," I tell him, and when I look up he's bent over too, a poor replica of my posture, an endearingly flattering imitation. "Simply with a _flap_ of its wing." 

His eyes are unsettling, I must admit--shells of white dilated to a single black pupil, and though his features have hardly moved, somehow I have seen this child enough to understand his demeanor, to feel the quizzical air falling out of his parted lips. 

I cannot bear to look at him for long, my eyes hide back inside the guise of inspection, observing the sparring we are meant to be watching. It is painful to see what I've created. I am shamed to have stolen this child from his home, bright-eyed and eager, and have turned him into something so stark. I have robbed him of his youth, eyes already clouded with death, hair already whitened with age. 

But still, he is no older than seventeen, and I can read it in his unspoken words, his furrowed brow. 

I have taught him to be a smart boy. 

"You have one in mind," he realizes.

My smile blooms of its own volition before withering upon my lips. I am as proud of his intuition as I am of my own plotting. "A butterfly?" 

"Yes." He is far too eager.

My laughter pours too readily. "What makes you think I have butterflies?" I have picked my second among the masses, a flash of too-dark hair and sinister humor tainting the air around quaking partners, an army in his own right. "I only have a pack of wolves, trained to kill." My finger outstretches to Ethan's form, as a body is sent much too hard until the ground beneath him. 

Noah is shaking his head. "You used to be a Turk." 

When I look at him again, eyes wide, face hopeful, waiting to be told he's right, I wonder how it is he's manged to become this tactical giant. At what point in time did this boy catch up to the protocol of espionage and warfare. 

But he is too confident, he will receive no answer. 

"Noah, there is no war." The words are dumbfounding. His face remains a mask of uncertainty. "We're just shy of 35,000 members, nearly half of the entire WRO force, and they are as unprepared as they will ever be to fight," my tone is too harsh, " _to die_." 

He is staring at me, white cut-out in space where a boy used to be. 

"We're going to North Rocket Town tomorrow," I tell him, "only you and I." 

His mind is going ten thousand miles an hour, the wheels turning so fast I wonder if this is not where all his color has gone, sucked away into the energy of his never-slowing mind. "A power-play... you're starting it?"

I ought to be. It's been so long the ball has been rolling in motion, gaining speed and momentum, collecting everything in its path.

"I don't intend to start anything tomorrow."

Because I _do_ know a butterfly. 

Though, I fear she does not owe me a thing in the world. __


End file.
